pjthompson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pjthompson) wrote2010-02-02 11:27 am
pjthompson) wrote2010-02-02 11:27 am
Lucky in love
I'm not sure equating rejection in romance with rejection of one's writing is an especially comforting thought, but Terence Cheng makes an interesting case. I've not been particularly lucky in love, but I have known love, and I do love. And yes, I am in-love with writing, not my own writing. I understand the difference.
That said, there are certain pieces of my writing that I love despite the flaws and rejection. They may never lead to the big, showy wedding day of publication, but they are my funny Valentines. Whether we ever march down the aisle together or just keep tripping over the the threshold, whether anybody else ever loves them, they're my special friends. They speak to a part of my heart, even if they aren't the best piece of writing in the world, even if objective opinion has people raising their eyebrows, saying, "Really?"
They're misshapen little lumps, they are, and I have no expectation of "bigger things" for them. But mothers love their lumps, even if everyone else thinks they're the ugliest baby they've ever seen. That's not romantic love, I realize. Sometimes I don't love the polished pieces that others like nearly as much, the ones closer to romantic expectations. The heart is quixotic like that.
That said, there are certain pieces of my writing that I love despite the flaws and rejection. They may never lead to the big, showy wedding day of publication, but they are my funny Valentines. Whether we ever march down the aisle together or just keep tripping over the the threshold, whether anybody else ever loves them, they're my special friends. They speak to a part of my heart, even if they aren't the best piece of writing in the world, even if objective opinion has people raising their eyebrows, saying, "Really?"
They're misshapen little lumps, they are, and I have no expectation of "bigger things" for them. But mothers love their lumps, even if everyone else thinks they're the ugliest baby they've ever seen. That's not romantic love, I realize. Sometimes I don't love the polished pieces that others like nearly as much, the ones closer to romantic expectations. The heart is quixotic like that.